From the Top
by irisbleufic
Summary: Perhaps wardrobe does make the man.


**1.**

In the Beginning—for all Beginnings deserve such distinction—Tarrant's hat had been just that. An elegant, well-made hat of modest standard: neither more, nor less. He'd spent hours tooling the pattern into the leather, a detail most people failed to notice unless they happened to stand close enough and squint. Or manage to get their hands on it, which almost never happened. Mirana had been one of the fortunate few.

"I _do_ hope it meets with your approval, Majesty," Tarrant lisped, fingers steepled, eyes downcast. "If it's too...er, _dark_, as it were, what with the, ah, prevailing _theme_, I might..." He'd trailed off, looking somewhat lost. "Is it...?"

"Fine," Mirana proclaimed, beaming down at him. She flipped the hat upside down in one smooth motion, peering inside. There were stars embroidered there, as if he expected one night it might serve as someone's sky. "It's worthy of you, Tarrant."

He beamed at her as she stood and placed it back upon his head, radiating sheer, joyous relief. "I'm so _very_ glad you like it, for that means you're all the more likely to like the latest one I've made _you_."

Mirana resumed her seat, palms pressed eagerly together. "Then shall we see it?"

Tarrant bent to open the hat-box that had been lurking at his feet. From folds of tissue paper the color of bleeding-hearts in spring, he drew an airy silver-white creation with netting all a-shimmer and a rose-colored silk band. Mirana weighed it in her hands as she'd weighed his own hat, turning it slowly to get a full view. The silk band was actually a scarf of some variety, merely twisted over and over upon itself in order to keep it in place. She'd never been fond of pink shades, however dusty. She picked at a bit of fringe, and the scarf began to unravel. Tarrant flinched.

"Majesty, if you _must_—"

"Just a moment," she said sweetly, carefully untangling the scarf from the netting as she unwound it. She held it up, studying the blossoms embroidered at the ends.

Tarrant had gone a bit whiter than usual, his eyes flaring the pallor of winter sun.

"This color's too sweet for me," said Mirana, kindly, donning her hat. She rose again, holding the silk scarf at arms' length as she approached him. "As for this, I think you've misplaced it." She reached up and tied it in place, careful not to knock its new host off Tarrant's head in the process. "_There_. Brightens you up a bit!"

She led him by the elbow to one of the throne room's many full-length mirrors. He studied himself for long moments, lips twitching, as if he couldn't decide what to make of the addition. His eyes finally turned the color of spring.

"You'll be glad of it one day," Mirana said, releasing him. "Useful things, scarves."

"Yes," Tarrant murmured, hazarding a smile. "I suppose they are."

**2.**

Tarrant had gone with Alice—_not_ the wrong one, however Mally may have protested to the contrary, much to her own shame—riding the brim of his hat before she could shout exactly what she thought after him. How could he just _leave_ them like that? What if they were set upon in the forest, with no one to defend them? Foolish.

Furthermore, _who_ would clean up the mess they'd left, now that teatime was over?

Right Alice or not, the girl had little more sense than a turnip. She wouldn't know how to take strategic advantage of the view you got from the top—that is, if she even had the ability to climb up without falling, much less keep her balance. She wouldn't know the first thing about using hat-pins in self-defense, either. Even Tarrant, oversized as he was, knew how to do _that_. He'd taught Mally to throw with deadly aim.

What she would know, Mally was bitterly certain, was how to drape herself in the scarf's silken folds and let herself be lulled to sleep by Tarrant's voice as they rested beneath the shadowy trees. It was bad enough that her scrawny, pale body was already clothed in rags made regal by Tarrant's skilled hands. He'd queened her by placing her on that coveted perch. Even a foolish meddler like Chess knew its worth.

Worse yet, Tarrant seemed to know Alice's, and now set Mally's next to nothing.

**3.**

The trouble with throwing things was, they rarely hit their mark.

Mally, for instance. Bloody difficult to hit, the wee bugger. _Dormouse_. Never wanted to go in the teapot unless she put herself there. Ridiculous. _Tea_. She could drink it all before they did if she wanted. Anyway, he'd never hit her, but Tarrant had. _Jam_.

Yes, right, Tarrant. _Hatter_. Easy to hit, relatively speaking.

What you didn't want to hit, though, was his head. _Hat_. Anywhere else was fair game, as he seemed to set the rest of his clothing at very little price, would repair it or replace it happily enough, coat after shirt after tie, but the hat...

Wild anger. _Eyes_. Dark voice, swift hands. _Pins_.

Best not hit it. _Teapot_. Rap on the lid now, see who's home. _Ah_.

"Mally, lass—will y'not come out?"

"_No_!"

Right, then. _Scones_.

**4.**

Imogene had never wanted anything less than the best for Alice. She'd always fancied the girl would find herself one of those sensitive artistic types, perhaps a painter or a naturalist. That business with Hamish _had_ seemed rather silly. But it was behind them now, and she'd found herself an artist. Of sorts. And he _was_ rather sensitive.

Hats are, after all, the measure of a man.

Take Charles, for instance. He'd owned only two hats, both of them pragmatic and plain. Steady, Imogene had reassured her sister. Secure. Versatile when need be. He wasn't _really_ mad, much though everyone had affectionately claimed that he was. His hats had confirmed no madness, but they'd shown him for a good husband.

Lowell, now. That one's trouble. He doesn't own any hats at _all_.

And then, by contrast, there is Alice's Tarrant: maker of many, wearer of one. Just as mad as he looks, in other words, and just as fiercely loyal. Hats like that don't stray.

It's taken Imogene a while to steal this opportunity, not least because the hat almost never leaves Tarrant's head. In a fit of uncharacteristic carelessness, it's been left on the drawing-room table, its wearer long since lured to bed by a stockingless Alice. Imogene had been glad for their sakes that Helen had retired early. She turns the hat over in her hands, marveling at its burnt patches and delicate hints of gold thread.

Reverently, Imogene carries it up the stairs and sets it before the guest-room door.

**5.**

It's simple, really: you always want hats to be seated where they _fit_. The White Queen needs her glittering crown, and Tarrant needs his damaged-yet-debonair oddity. It's simply the way of things. Hats know where they belong, but sometimes they need help getting there—which requires evaporating skills. And, occasionally, claws.

Being impartial, Chessur steers well clear of placing judgements upon the wearer. No, he's strictly hat-wise: he knows the worth of headwear and the application thereof.

He expects only permission to sample the goods. For some, it's a _very_ high price.

**6.**

Alice slips from bed on feet lighter than a cat's, padding across the bare floorboards and over to the door. She hesitates for a moment, Tarrant notes, as if she fears she'll be discovered. Her skin glows rosy in the candlelight, still flushed, shadows slipping down the curve of her spine. She holds her breath as she turns the doorknob.

"I know I heard _something_." She opens it, tilting her head downward. "Wait, what—"

She bends to snatch something quickly inside, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

"_Oh_," Tarrant says, eyes widening as she places the hat on her head and turns, spinning on the balls of her feet like a dancer. "You don't suppose your mother..."

"No," Alice replies, grinning. She grasps the trailing ends of the scarf as if she means to toss them over her shoulder, and then thinks better of it, arranging the fabric over her breasts with mock-modesty. "It must have been my aunt. She reads all night by the fire. When I was a girl, she used to visit often. I'd sneak downstairs and sit beside her. She'd read to me." Alice frowns at the scarf-ends as they fall away, exposing her goose-pimpled flesh once more. "It was worth a try."

"For my part," Tarrant admits, drawing back the covers, "I'm glad it didn't work."

Alice runs to him, in need of no more bidding, holding the hat in place as she bounces onto the mattress. She shifts into his lap, pulling the sheet across her shoulders like a cloak. Tarrant tugs the scarf-ends free, arranging them neatly down the curve of her neck, the flash of her throat, the hum of her heart. She tilts her head, questioning.

"I'm glad of it now," he murmurs, leaning to kiss her. "Very glad _indeed_."


End file.
